


Five Times Jillian Holtzmann Learned She Was Alone (and One Time She Realized She Wasn't)

by iliveinfantasies



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Community: femmeslash, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Romance, this is lightly angsty but only because in my headcanon holtz didn't have the best childhood ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:24:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times in Holtzmann's life she realized that she was alone--and the time she realized that she no longer was.</p><p>A bit of a character study, starting with Holtzmann's earlier life, and ending with Holtzbert endgame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. or When Holtzmann Discovered That The Tooth Fairy Isn't Real--and Neither Are Friends

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr username is iliveinfantasylife, so feel free to visit me there as well.
> 
> As previously stated, this pic is a bit of a character study. I am working on another pic, but baby!Holtz started talking to me and wouldn't stop, so here we are.
> 
> This story will contain six chapters, one for each "incident"/event, and they might be of varying lengths. I am hoping to finish this pic today or tomorrow, so it will be updated pretty quickly.
> 
> This is the first pic I have written for this fandom, so I am very much hoping that I got/am getting the voices of the characters right. As always, please feel free to comment with helpful criticism and ideas, and whatever else you would like!

When Jillian was five, she lost her first tooth on the first day of Kindergarten.

They were drawing at their desks, pieces of butcher paper crumpling over the edges, and crayons scattered at various intervals around the room. She was digging around in her desk for a yellow crayon--her _favorite,_ except for redandblueandgreenandorangeandpurpleand--doing an assignment that she deemed ridiculous (did she even remember what it was? Oh well, _she_ was drawing a rocket ship. A crayon holding rocket ship so she wouldn't have to dig around her desk while she was drawing and--) wiggling her bottom front tooth with her tongue. She stuck her tongue out, concentrating, when suddenly she felt a POP and puuuush and out it went, onto her desk, splattering tiny red dots as it landed. Jillian stopped, stubby fingers scrabbling cross the paper to grab the tooth.

She stood there, grinning, bloody tooth in hand, showing off the oozing gap in her gums, and proudly announced to the teacher that she was going to ship her tooth off in a rocket to the moon. Her teacher looked at her strangely but Jillian didn't notice; her plans were already forming in her head.

"Don't you want to put it under your pillow for the tooth fairy?" Jillian shook her head, blonde curls bouncing off of her forehead as she rocked on the balls of her feet.

"It would be much more useful as rocket fuel," she stated, smiling down the the tooth again.

"We should send _her_ to the moon," one blonde-haired boy called out, laughing, pulling more chuckles from the kids around his desk.

"She's already FROM the moon!" Said the red-headed boy at the desk next to him.

"Yeah, look at her GLASSES!" Said the first one, again. "They look like alien eyes!"

Jillian's hand flew up to her goggles, the ones she had picked out for good luck for the first day.

Jillian's mouth wobbled, for a moment, her throat-and-eyes burning slightly, and she stuffed her fists into the pockets on the baggy legs of her very-most-comfortable jeans, the ones she chose special for the first day of school.

"That is _enough_!" Her teacher yelled, but the rest of the kids were already laughing. Jillian shoved the fist containing her tooth into her stomach, trying to calm the waves that began to roll there, and bit her lip. She kept smiling anyway, gums still lazily oozing blood. 

She glanced at the plans she had been drawing on the long piece of butcher paper. She resolved to put her tooth under her pillow that night. Her hand shot out, still clutching the tooth, shoving the rocket ship off her desk and out of her stupid head.

That night, Jillian drew a rocket-shaped envelope to put her tooth in. As she carefully framed the edges in black, shouts echoed from the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. The sound bounced off the hallway walls, bounced between her ears, and Jillian winced. She put down her Sharpie, ran over to her desk, clicked the "play" button on her tape player, and turned up the dance music as loud as she dared. She jigged around the room, putting on pajamas, and occasionally yelping as she stepped on stray Legos and Lincoln Logs. The yells from the living room got louder, and Jillian frowned, shoving both her head and the rocket-enclosed tooth under the pillow, making a little cocoon for them both. She didn't know anything about _magic_ , so she didn't know if you could make wishes on teeth, but she tried anyway.

When Jillian woke up the next morning, she scrambled out of bed, tossing the pillow on top of a pile of half-finished sketches on the floor. She stared at the rumpled paper rocket ship for a moment before snatching it in her fist. She ripped it in half, crumpling the paper, tiny white tooth flying away and hitting the wall with a plink. Her eyes stung and her nose itched and her throat pricked. She sniffed, shook herself, smiled a gap-toothed grin at herself in the bathroom mirror, and got ready for school.

The tooth fairy never came.

No one else did, either. Not at recess, not at lunch, and when she came back from lunch on the second day of Kindergarten her desk had SPACE CASE scribbled (misspelled) across it in black magic marker.


	2. 2.6 Weeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I meant to update this earlier, then my internet went out. On the plus side, I have half of chapter 3 done! I hope you enjoy it, and that I got her voice right! Don't worry, it will get happier, I promise!

Jillian met Lia the second week of middle school.

Jillian had decided, earlier, that middle school would present her with some sort of new beginning, a new chance at a nickname, perhaps--her interests had changed from rocket ships to nuclear fusion, after all, and the current nickname no longer seemed sufficient (because that _had_  to be the reason she didn't want the nickname, it _had_  to.)

New school. New life. So Jillian had gone to school the first day with renewed (somewhat tentative) gusto, dancing her way through the front doors, yellow goggles once again perched precariously on her mop of blonde hair and a wrench hanging off of the belt loop of her jeans.

Pressing open the heavy metal doors, she had emerged into front hallway of the middle school ten minutes early, just enough time to find her locker. It smelled like sweat and strawberry candy, clouds of sickly sweet vanilla scented perfume being spritzed behind locked doors. She wrinkled her nose. She liked the smells of gasoline being burned and motor oil, wood being cut and the sharp ash of flames being put out. She shrugged, thumbing the wrench, and made her way toward her locker.

"HEY, SPACE CASE, you goin' to Mars with that getup?"

Jillian paused for a second, mid step, hand frozen on the wrench, eyes focusing like machines on Todd, one of her tormentors from her elementary school.

She drew her breath in through her teeth, and her smile faltered-but-didn't-fade, and she clutched the wrench like a safety blanket as she made her way toward her locker. Todd's laughs echoed through the hallway, multiplying as people turned to stare. And suddenly the clangs became clatters of locker-slams around her and the giggles got louder. But she was used to noise becoming music and she made it so, in her head, until her smile was _almost_ genuine.

And then Space Case began to spread. When it wasn't that, it was whispers, furtive but pointed, followed by giggles whenever Jillian was nearby.

But she kept her smile straight and her notebook open, rocket ships turning to household-objects on the page _could I rewire the toaster to launch the toast onto my plate?_ And sat by herself at lunch once again.  
\-------------------

She had taken to eating lunch in the far left corner of the cafeteria, tucked into one of the sticky plastic chairs, goggles hanging off one ear and a pen in her hand. _Pencils are for dudes_ , she decided.

Jillian heard a couple of laughs filter through the din of the lunch room, and glanced up, fully expecting them to be aimed at her. But they weren't. The were aimed at a girl wearing a neon pink polka dot skirt and orange tights, a large green now holding up a ponytail in her hair.

And she was headed straight toward Jillian.

Jillian stared at the girl, breath caught in her throat and forming a small bubble, delight and hope and--no, no, no, she was going to be Space Case in approximately 2.35 seconds which was how long it would take the girl to finish crossing the room and--but she kept smiling anyway, her sandwich churning in her stomach.

The girl stepped up to Jillian, arm extended, a crooked smile stretched across her face. Jillian stared at the hand, unsure what to do with it for a moment, until recognition slid into place with a click. Jillian plastered a huge smile on her own face, and reached for the girl's hand without standing up.

"Hi!" The girl said, brightly. "I'm Lia! Well, actually, I'm Amelia, but I'm CALLED Lia, you know, like the last part of the name? I just transferred into your History class today and I saw your goggles and they're AWESOME." Jillian blinked, then realized she was still shaking the girl's--Lia's--hand, she quickly dropped it and said,  
"I'm Jillian." _But I'm called Space Case, she didn't say._

Lia slid in next to her at the table. Jillian continued.

"I like your bow."  
Lia's smile grew even wider. She plucked the bow out of her own hair and stuck in into Jillian's hair. Jillian grinned, warmth overtaking her chest, and pushed over her notebook.

"Wanna see a launching toaster?"  
\-----------------

The next day at lunch, Lia came to sit with Jillian. She had been almost surprised to see Lia there, convinced that it had been a one-time thing. She was not surprised, however, to hear one of the kids from the table next to theirs yell,

"Hey Space Case, did you leave your virginity on the moon?"

Jillian ignored them, stomach flipping, but kept her smile up. She scribbled lightly with her pen.

"That doesn't even make sense," Lia scoffed, rolling her eyes, and Jillian looked up, grinning genuinely.

"Hey," Lia called back to the boy. "Screw you!"

The boy stared at her, gaping open mouthed.   
So did Jillian. Then, suddenly, her face broke out into a giant grin, and a very small giggle worked its way through her lips.

From that point on, "screw you" became their mantra.

\----------------

It had lasted exactly 2.6 weeks, Jillian calculated. 2.6 weeks of sitting next to each other in class, 2.6 weeks of sharing ideas at lunch, 2.6 weeks of Jillian dancing in her head. 2.6 weeks of not eating alone.

Then the call came, and Lia's grandmother was sick. Really, really sick. And the next day, they were gone.

That night, Jillian sat in her room, at her desk, forehead furrowed, the ghost of a smile on her face. There was no yelling this time, just an eerie silence from the living room, followed by loud clink bottles as they hit the garbage can in the kitchen. She pressed the volume button on her tape player, and worked steadily, twisting the metal together, soldering, shaking slightly. When she was done, she pulled the chain over head head, closed her eyes, and danced her way to her dresser. She had worked all night.

The next day at school, she arrived with her goggles, her wrench, her notebook, and a screw you necklace around her neck.

2.6 weeks of almost having a friend.


	3. Falling in Love is For Dudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzmann goes to college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, some business. Turns out that my phone had autocorrected my Tumblr username and I didn't realize. My real username is iliveinfantasylife, and that's where you can find me. Please come talk to me about fandom because I love these ladies. Now, the fic.
> 
> Holy shit, you guys. This took longer to post than I anticipated, but it is also WAAAAYYYY longer than anticipated. I need to reread it sometime when I'm not sick of looking at it, so I apologize for any and all typos and will fix them. Thank you everyone who has read, liked, and commented on this fic--I truly appreciate you all!

The first time she realized she liked girls was in college.

One day her senior year of high school, she submitted applications. Months later, the letters started rolling in. University of Connecticut. Boston University. University of New Hampshire. University of Maine. Even MIT, but only because her advisor had bulldozed her into it ( _you have a 4.0 GPA and a letter of recommendation from a NASA summer internship, what are you doing?_ ). And there, on the bottom of her letter-pile, the one school across the country that she had applied to on a whim—the University of Washington.

She sat in the middle of her acid-stained carpet (an experiment with a toaster had gone wrong), letters spread haphazardly on either side of her, twirling a screwdriver between her fingers. She pulled down her goggles, and hesitated exactly 1.8 seconds before grabbing her one and only ticket out of there.

She burned the rest of the letters on the Bunsen burner at school, goggles down, grinning at the pile of ashes they formed. The flame lights flickered with each letter, reflecting off of the now-smooth metal of her necklace (she rubbed it when she was nervous), and she felt her heart lighten a little with each tie she had to this place she had grown up in.

* * *

 

She argued with her adviser for a solid forty-five minutes. She was a woman named Dr. Gorin, who sighed a lot when she was frustrated. She would sigh quite a bit over the next four years, every time the soles of her boots scuffed the edge of the desk during their meetings.

Dr. Gorin said she couldn’t double major in Mechanical Engineering and Physics.

Jillian said she could until she decided which one to pick.

Dr. Gorin said she would fail all of her classes.

Jillian shrugged her shoulders and said, “kay.”

She never picked one. How could she pick between two perfect fields?

She also never failed.

* * *

 

She was one of two girls in her Mechanical Engineering 123 class. Due to the AP’s she had taken in high school, she was able to skip most of beginning calculus, chemistry, and physics, and cut straight to ME.

The first day came with a long lecture about the syllabus (she drew equations in the margins), and an announcement that they were to work with lab partners in the lab for the class. She looked around the room, unimpressed, and pulled her goggles over her eyes, blocking everyone else out.

They a tap on her shoulder, followed by a hissed “Hey,” made her jump slightly, dislodging her boots from the back of the seat in front of her. She nearly toppled her notebook off of her lap as she turned around to see a girl with a long, brown ponytail and light grey eyes sitting just above her in the lecture hall. The girl smiled. “Andie,” she said, holding out her hand. There was a brief moment of hesitation, a very slight pause, and then--

“Holtzmann.” Holtzmann held out her own hand to shake Andie’s.

“Wanna be my lab partner?” Andie asked. “Everyone else, well…” she trailed off, gesturing around the room. “There’s only so much testosterone and talking-down-to I can take at one time.” Holtzmann laughed, but tried to laugh quietly, so breath caught in her throat and she ended up coughing loudly instead. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“Sure, I mean, yeah. Lab partner. That sounds…” she paused, searching for words, marveling at how difficult they were just then. “…good.” She finally finished, lamely. Andie’s eyes glimmered with mirth for a second.

“Great. Glad to hear it. Digging the necklace, by the way,” she said. Holtzmann’s fingers flew to the necklace around her neck. It felt heavy on her chest, just then, and the way she was breathing was _certainly_ not normal, perhaps she was having—

She realized she had waited too long to answer, again. She had developed a habit of doing that,

“Thanks,” she managed, grinning, before turning back around to watch the other students not listen to the professor, either.

* * *

 

Holtzmann and Andie worked as lab partners for the next several weeks.

Holtzmann actually enjoyed Andie’s company. And Andie, remarkably, actually seemed to enjoy Holtzmann’s, too. And, best of all, she never once called Holtzmann _Space Case,_ or made fun of her goggles, or, _or made her have to force her smile._ She made jokes. She rolled her eyes right along with Holtzmann when one of the guys from their class offered to “help with the dirty work.” She didn’t blink when she walked in one day to see Holtzmann twirling to a lipsynced rendition of “Electric Avenue.” She helped Holtzmann fix her hair into a slightly more practical bun (“Now you won’t light it on fire as often,”) and laughed when Holtzmann came in the next day with a half of the bun coming out to form a puff on her head (“Buns are for dudes.” “No, Holtzmann, they literally are not.”)

Holtzmann worked dutifully and, for her part, tried really, really hard to not blow things up in Andie’s face—though she couldn’t exactly explain why that urge was quashed. It usually didn’t work, but she did try not to singe off Andie’s eyebrows.

Throughout these meetings, Holtzmann easily ignored the flutters. She ignored the throat tightening and stomach-leaps that arose any time Andie walked in to the lab. She ignored the way her heart felt like it stopped (she knew it hadn’t, because scientifically, it would then not make sense that she was standing) every time Andie got hurt (or even looked like she did). She chalked it up to finding another girl who liked mechanical engineering, who enjoyed taking things apart and figuring out how things worked. And she definitely did not notice the way Andie’s eyes lit up when they solved a new problem, or the way her hair flowed around her shoulders, or the way she stuck out the tip of her tongue when she was concentrating on something, or the spicy way she smelled, like cinnamon and cloves and vanilla. Holtzmann just enjoyed Andie’s company, and she liked how nice Andie was, and she definitely, definitely was not doing something as stupid and reckless and scientifically unsound as falling in love. _Emotions are for dudes,_ she told herself, firmly.

* * *

 

One Tuesday evening, the last week of class, Holtzmann sat at the desk in her dorm room, absently screwing together her roommate’s computer (she had to do _something_ to get her roommate to stop complaining about the lack of speed, and her roommate wasn’t home, anyway), and humming Madonna to herself. Then she stopped, the harddrive half screwed in, and slammed her screwdriver down on the desk. She needed to give Andie something, she decided, suddenly. Something for being such a good—a good lab partner, something…

She chewed her lip, thinking, tapping her fingernails on the desk. Then she had it. The idea-spark that usually accompanied an invention, or at the very least a grand-scheme to “borrow” the smoke alarm from the front hall of her dormitory and steal the parts.

She spent the next night in the lab, cutting metal, soldering, forcing sheets or aluminum together to form shapes, and definitely blowing off her English Comp. homework because “homework is for dudes.” She emerged with a large grin, two new burns on her elbow (how was she to remember that the soldering iron was on?) and a shiny-but-not-smooth “screw you” pendant.

* * *

 

Holtzmann had never visited Andie at her dorm room before. She knew Andie lived in the residence hall next to hers, but she had only ever really ventured out of her own dorm room to go to class, and occasionally go eat (when she remembered—or, rather, remembered when she wasn’t elbow-deep in wires and motor oil). She remembered Andie telling her that she lived in room 213 (Holtzmann had a knack for remembering numbers). So Holtzmann pulled on her boots, pulled her goggles up onto her head, and strode over to the hall next door. Holtzmann clutched the box with the pendant, a wooden one with a hinge that she had burned a panda into, because Andie liked pandas.

Holtzmann waltzed into the residence hall like she belonged, there and began to hop up the stairs, two at a time. She found the second floor and strode down them, dancing a bit, smile stretched wide enough that her dimple was showing. She found room 213, and knocked, lightly.

“Andieeee!” Holtzmann sing-songed, practically jigging with excitement. Her stomach was churning uncomfortably. No answer.

“Andie…?” Holtzmann tried again, knocking a little harder this time. This time, the force pressed the door open, to reveal Andie’s back—wrapped in the arms of a muscular, black-haired boy that Holtzmann recognized from their engineering class. Holtzmann stood stock still. Andie pulled away from the boy. Her hair was rumpled, her lips red, her eyes soft. Holtzmann checked off all of these observations in her mind, as though doing a mental checklist that lead to one very unwelcome conclusion.

“Holtzmann?” Andie said, confused, but Holtzmann couldn’t hear her. The blood was roaring in her ears again.

Andie took a step closer. “What’s up? Need something?”

Holtzmann took a step back, her breaths coming quickly. Too quickly. She felt dizzy, felt the necklace weigh heavier than ever on her chest, felt the box grow heavier still in her hands.

Then she ran.

* * *

 

Her boots slammed the sidewalk, her hair flying in wild whisps around her eyes. She didn’t realize where she was going until the door appeared, propped open in front of her.

_Fire regulations,_ thought Holtzmann wildly, unable to comprehend anything but facts at the moment. She peered into the door, caught the look of surprise on her adviser’s face.

“Doctor Gorin,” she said flatly, eyes downcast, the shadow of a smile still on her face. “This is for you. For being…” she faltered, and swallowed, hard, rubbing her necklace. “For being such a great adviser this year. Thank you.” She thrust the box into Dr. Gorin’s hands, then turned around and left before Dr. Gorin could say a word.

* * *

 

The rest of college was accompanied by a lot of drinking. A lot of making-out-in-dorm-bathrooms, a lot of sneaking out of dorm rooms at night and waking up alone. And a lot of the realization that she knew exactly what buttons to push to work girls-like-machines. But no more crushes. No more love.

Never any more love.


	4. Perhaps, Then, We Could Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jillian Holtzmann finds herself at the door of one Abigail Yates, looking for a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, for those of you following this story, I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. School started two days ago, soooo sadly, that has to take priority.
> 
> I tried to write this chapter about six times, and it just was not coming together, so I hope that it does end up translating for you all.
> 
> As usual, you can find me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife.
> 
> Thanks!

The first time Holtzmann met Abby was exactly one year after Erin had left—though Holtmann had not known that, at the time.

Holtzmann finished college in record time (no more lovers, not this time), and wasted no time in applying to PhD programs. Engineering and physics were good. Stable. Well, as stable as highly combustible chemicals, over-charged electronics, and nuclear reactors could ever be. She had found herself torn, in this instance, in the months leading up to her graduation. Because Jillian Holtzmann loved engineering, loved physics, loved _science_ —but hated school. She hated that, no matter how large the classroom or lecture hall or science lab, she never quite fit. She hated that the politics had _shapes,_ had _hierarchies_ that she could not contend with no matter the amount of exasperated sighs she got from Dr. Gorin. She hated the boys in her major who either spoke to her in slurs or platitudes, and the girls in her major who didn’t really exist. Consequently, like any good scientist would do, she had worked her way through the facts—the parts that made up the ways her life could go, those foggy shades of grey, and compiled them together in various combination, until they made some kind of tangible path. She did not want to attend more school. She did want more knowledge. She did not want more classes or more boys offering to “lift that” for her (she was more than capable of picking up a nuclear reactor on her own, thankyouverymuch). She did want a lab, and the freedom to build anything she wanted. She knew she could not, ultimately, achieve this without a doctorates degree. So, in the end, and much to her chagrin, she applied for PhD programs. She emerged four-and-a-half years later (the minimum was five years, technically, but Holtzmann found herself suddenly more motivated than most, because academia, quite literally, is for dudes).

The next year, she met Abby.

As far as Holtzmann was concerned, the West Coast wasn’t safe, the East Coast wasn’t safe, and nothing about the Midwest seemed safe in the slightest. So she moved to Manhattan. New York seemed as good a place as any, and it was the sort of place where people would be less likely to question explosions. She found herself a tiny, shitty apartment—the sort of place that would require quite a bit of self-maintence, but Holtzmann simply thought of this as opportunity for improvement—and started scouring the “free” section of Craigslist. One afternoon, upon spending forty minutes attempting to fix the “light” (light being a generous word for it) in her bathroom (bathroom was also a generous word) she was sitting on her bed (which was really a sleeping bag covered in her comforter from college), doing a Craigslist search for “blow torch.” She was having very little luck, until a _job_ ad, of all things, popped up. She cocked her head at the screen, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. _Hullo,_ she thought, clicking the link. _What’s this?_

“This” turned out to be a job opportunity posted by one Abigail Yates, who was looking for an assistant to help her study the paranormal at the Kenneth P. Higgins Institute of Science. The ad offered poor pay, worse benefits, minimal supervision, and a lab. Holtzmann grinned fully, wiggling her arms around in a sort of half-Macarena as she hit the print button.

Perfect.

* * *

 

Holtzmann poled her head through the already-open, graffiti-laden door at the Kenneth P. Higgins Institute of Science.

"Hello?"

Silence. She stepped in all the way.

"Hel-loooooo?" She sing-songed in her best Broadway voice, looking around the room. The air was slightly stale, tinged with the sharp tang of metal and a very faint hint of Szechuan sauce. Holtzmann felt her head begin to buzz slightly with excitement, and she tucked her hands into her pockets, rocking back and forth on her heels. At last a voice answered.

 "ANDREW!" A voice called from behind a thick, orange, plastic curtain.

"Is that you?"

Holtzmann rocked back on her heels to look down at herself. She glanced around the room, eyeing the various types of blowtorches, half-full beakers, scraps of computer parts scattered haphazardly around the shelves. Perfect. She cocked one eyebrow, then shrugged.

"I'll be whoever you want so long as you hire me," she said, grinning.

"What?" The voice called again, tinged with confusion. "Wait, why would I hire you?"

 Holtzmann shrugged again, still grinning. "I mean, they say that those PhD things mean something, but I have my doubts."

 "I...huh?" Said the voice, shortly followed by a short, brown-haired woman wearing a large, metal box on her head, like a hat.

"Wait," said the woman. "You're not the takeout guy. Who are you?"

Holtzmann hardly flinched upon seeing the box. "Jillian Holtzmann."

"Alright, but WHO are you?" Asked the woman again, changing her emphasis as though that made an ounce of difference. Holtzmann just stared at the woman for a moment. Had she gotten the wrong office? This woman had a PhD? Holtzmann thought she had made herself pretty clear.

 "Jill-i-an, Holtz-mann," Holtzmann repeated, emphasizing each syllable in turn. The woman waved her hand. 

"Yes, yes, I got that. But if you're not delivery, why are you here?"

 Ah, so that was it. Holtzmann brightened--that she could answer. She pulled her goggles over her eyes, then dug into the pocket of her overalls--bypassing a wrench, two tiny light bulbs, and a can opener--and pulled out the rumpled print-out of the craigslist ad.

 "You need an assistant?" She slammed the paper down on a counter to her left--good thing there was a counter there, Holtzmann thought, fleetingly, or the entire exchange would have been remarkably less dramatic--and widened her grin.

"I need a lab."

* * *

 

One week later, Holtzmann and Abby found themselves engaged in what Abby referred to as an "inventive frenzy"--Abby was testing things as quickly as Holtzmann could churn them out, and Holtzmann was screwing-and-soldering-and-fusing and occasionally dousing flames with the fire extinguisher that, after the first day, Abby had demanded Holtzmann keep next to her worktable at all times.

Divo was blasting out of Abby's boom box, and Holtzmann was skipping about wildly, hammer in one hand, screw driver in the other, occasionally pausing to thrust her hips into the air. After one particularly enthusiastic arm thrust-jazz-hands combo, the screwdriver flew from her hands, whizzing toward Abby with a _whoosh_ , and plopped loudly into Abby's nearly-egg-free container of egg drop soup.

"Aw man, Holtz!" Abby called as she, the curtain, and the papers stuffed underneath the soup container were all splattered with lukewarm broth. Abby emerged from behind the curtain again, and yanked the screwdriver out of the soup.

“Looks like you really _screwed this one up,_ ” Abby stated, cracking herself up as she tossed the screwdriver back to Holtzmann.

 Holtzmann caught the screwdriver (barely, as it was now slippery with broth), and wiggled her eyebrows at Abby, laughing too.

And she was happy.

It was another two weeks before Holtzmann learned about Erin Gilbert.

Abby, having tired of Chinese food for lunch, had gone off to pick them both up a couple of sandwiches. She left Holtzmann with specific instructions to “ _Please_ not burn down the lab, but if you wanna take a gander at those pompous Chemistry assholes down the hall… _no,_ Holtzmann, I do _not_ actually mean that.”

Holtzmann, for her part, had actually managed to follow those instructions. She was fiddling with a circuit board, attempting to shove it into a slot that was far, far too small for it. Her tongue poked out of her mouth in concentration, and her goggles slipped slightly on her nose. She paused, for a moment, fairly certain she was on the edge of a breakthrough. She stood up, abruptly, nearly upsetting the entire contraption in the process.

She desperately needed a paper clip.

Moment later, Holtzmann found herself on her knees, rummaging around Abby’s desk for a paperclip. Her search was coming up frustratingly short, however, and she was just about to move on to the next cupboard when a shiny, hardcover book caught her eye. Holtzmann was never one to stifle her curiosity, so she pulled the book out from under a pile of electricity bills. Glancing at the title, Holtzmann stared at the cover in surprise. She hadn’t known that Abby had written a book. Abby had never mentioned it…nor the coauthor, Erin Gilbert. A colleague, perhaps? Holtzmann ran her fingers over the cover, thoughtfully, tapping her fingernails along the bridge of picture-Abby’s nose. She flipped through the pages, and several phrases popped out at her. She suddenly slid her goggles over her eyes, plopped into to Abby’s desk chair, propped her boots on the desk and started reading.

That was where Holtzmann still was when Abby found her, fifteen minutes later.

“HOLTZ!” Abby called, striding into the room. “I got extra jalapenos, and—“ Abby stopped, staring, and strode over to Holtzmann.

“You were looking through my _desk?”_ Abby exclaimed, her voice rising in volume with each word. Holtzmann, missing the Abby’s sharp tone, looked up, grinning, and held up the book excitedly.

“ _Yeah,_ some of the theories in this book are _great, Abs,_ you never told me you wrote a book! Though a couple of the notes, especially by this…Erin? I don’t know, she’s only something with—well, I would use _copper_ for some of these ideas, myself.” Holtzmann glanced at the back of the book again. “Nice picture, too,” Holtzmann added, winking at Abby.

Abby dropped the plastic bag of sandwiches on the floor, and strode across the room in two steps. Abby grabbed hold of the book, and yanked.

“Abby, what the hell…?”

Abby held the book out at arms-length, looking as though she simultaneously wanted to burn it and hug it to her chest.

“Don’t go through my stuff.”

Holtzmann stopped short, then, blinking in surprise.

“You let me grab things all the time, I just…” then she paused, thoughtful, and rubbed her necklace. “Who _is_ that person, anyway?”

“It’s just some _person_ who I used to think of as a _friend_ and then that _friend_ just—you know, never mind, I don’t need to _explain it.”_ Abby hissed, sounding furious.

But Holtzmann recognized the look in Abby’s eyes for what it really was: abandonment, loneliness, and regret.

 

* * *

 

 Abby pieced together the entire story of Erin Gilbert over the next week or so, usually following some pretty heavy consumption of raspberry moscato.

Holtzmann was well versed in the scientific method--she had devoted her entire life to its study (and, often promptly ignored it--but it was _informed_ ignoring). But this, this friendship? It defied all rules of the scientific method. And while Holtzmann was usually down for some scientific anarchy, this situation was especially vexing. Because whether she realized it or not (and Holtzmann suspected not), Erin Gilbert seemed to permeate every aspect of the life and times of Abigail Yates. Holtz had tried observation, research, experimentation, and even equations scrawled across everything from white boards to Abby's yellow sweater ("HOLTZMANN, I swear to god...") but no matter how hard she tried to figure it out, she was unable to equate the situation, unable to piece the puzzle into an order that actually made sense. Holtzmann had thought that, perhaps, like with her, only friend would equate to best friend. But in this instance, it could not be more clear: Holtzmann was Abby's only friend, and yet she had lost--to a woman who was no longer there. Because even as they experimented, even as they built and mixed and laughed, even as Holtzmann melded and danced and and stole Abby's wontons out of her bowl ("Holtzmann, I only had one good wonton in there to begin with!" "Robots did it." "I just saw you." "Robots." "I literally watched--" "ROBOTS."), it quickly became clear that Erin Gilbert was NOT gone. She was part of everything that Abby said and did and told.

 And it was with this knowledge that Holtzmann pressed on, smile plastered across her face, though her heart was held in a vice grip, and stomach felt like molten metal.

Because Abby was the best--and only, really--friend that Holtzmann had ever had.

And even as she and Abby got closer, she knew that the same could not be said about her.


	5. or, That Time Erin Came Down the Stairs Naked and Holtzmann Wholeheartedly Approved--Before it Broke Her Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erin gets asked out on a date, and Holtzmann realizes exactly how much she likes Erin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, you guys, I'm sorry for taking so long to post Grad School is in full swing here, and life between that and work is just insane. Thank you for those who are still following this fic, I love allll of you! The last chapter is on the way, too, what with the weekend coming, and another fic is in the works as well.
> 
> As always, come find me! I love talking about these gals! I also love prompts. I'm iliveinfantasylife on Tumblr.

It took Holtzmann exactly 54 days after the “Mercado Mishap” (or, “that one time Erin shot a Pilgrim with a proton gun,”) to figure it out.

65 days after they put a ghost in a box.

75 days after the first Tiny Bowtie sighting.

74 days after Abby figured it out first.

The exact same day that some guy from the bar the night before else had figured out that he wanted to take Erin on her first date since Phil.

 

They had worked out a sort of routine after moving into the firehouse. Holtzmann had continued to insist that she "called it, dibs, claimed it, the whole shebang." The others conceded, on the basis that "sharing that lab would be like sharing it with a small tornado--and I would know," (Abby);

“Baby, I love you, but I just _know_ one of those damn inventions is gonna catch my books on fire, and then it will be me throwing you out the window this time,” (Patty); and "I like the first floor." (Erin). After the fifth time Patty yelled at Erin for rearranging her book piles, however ("They weren't in alphabetical order!") Erin was banished upstairs to go "chalk your calculations AWAY from my book piles."

Holtzmann had taken to this arrangement by shoving Erin's blackboard into the far corner, and playing as much raucous music as possible whenever Erin was in their shared office.

 

They had also mostly taken to living in the firehouse at this point. They had kept their apartments at first, except Holtzmann, who, on the very first day, wasted absolutely no time in moving herself and all of her possessions (mostly a wild assortment of metal pieces, boots, and high waisted pants) out of her tiny shitty apartment and into the only real home she had ever known (though she told them all it was really so she didn't have to leave "her babies," plus "hey, free rent!" "Holtzmann, it's not actually free." "Free rent!") But the more time they all spent at the firehouse, the more they ended up accidentally falling asleep on couches, or in chairs, or once, in Erin's case, the empty bathtub (a towel clad Holtzmann had discovered her just before she was about to take a shower, and promptly chose to wake Erin up by grinning and turning said shower to the 'on' position.)

Erin technically still had an apartment at this point, but had steadily, over the course of the last month, moved every single piece of clothing she owned into one of the upstairs closets, excepting some underwear and two mismatched pairs of socks--and Holtzmann was fairly convinced that the socks were only still there because Erin couldn't stand to look at them just sitting there, being all mismatched and stuff.

Which is exactly how they had found themselves in their current situation.

 

It had started with Kevin's announcement a mere four hours prior that a "Dim Buckwheat" was on the phone for Erin downstairs.

("Dim Buckwheat?"

"Yes, Gilbert, it's clearly some kind of non-fluorescent healthy grain calling--"

"Oh my god, it's JIM, JIM BUCKLEY from the bar last night. And y'all say you got PhDs."

"More importantly, Kevin, he had my cell number. Why were you answering my cell?"

"Oh, because it was ringing, boss!"

"You can answer my cell phone when it's ringing, but you can't--never mind."

"Told you he was starting to figure out the phones.")

This had then led to what Abby referred to as the "six stages of Erin:"

One stage of overwhelming calmness, followed by five stages of increasing panic.

Which is what landed them here. Erin, in various states of undress, running upstairs and downstairs repeatedly to get their opinions on variations of the exact same work suit while Holtzmann offered "helpful" advice.

"Um, Erin, it's nice, but--"

"Girl, you are going on a _date_ , not educating him in the finer points of particle physics."

"You could just go naked."

"Holtz! Not helping!"

"Mostly naked?"

"Holtz!"

"Erin, I really think you're overthinking it. I mean, if this guy is anything like the guy who dances like a stiff grandma, you're screwed, but..."

"Man, you KNOW those hips were wild—wait, not THAT one either, you look like the ladies who work at my uncles funeral home— _during_ the funerals.”

"How about just a tiny bow tie?"

"HOLTZ!"

"How about a tiny bow tie with a tiny bow tie?"

"Holtzmann!"

"It'll be like bowtie-ception!"

"Girl, what in the sweet hell are you talking about?"

Erin was so flustered at this point that, At one point, much to Holtzmann's amusement and delight, she ran downstairs in only her underwear.

Abby had just stared.

"Oh my god, they match."

Patty had leaned against the work table, arms crossed, and averted her eyes.

"Girl, that is SO much more than I needed to see of you.

Holtzmann had leaned into her elbows and grinned, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Now that's what I'm talking about."

"HOLTZ!"

"I mean, if you wear that, your date will be so much more interesting! Might get arrested though. Kinda hard to say."

Erin looked down, then back up, her face draining of blood.

Holtzmann winked.

Erin turned her underwear-clad body around and ran back upstairs.

Holtzmann snorted and rubbed her necklace. Her stomach flopped uncomfortably, and Holtzmann frowned at it. She thought for a second, then grabbed the Pringles from their resting place under her worktable. _Hunger_ , she thought, pleased with herself. _Deduced using the scientific method. Symptom: hunger. Solution: Pringles._ She pulled out a chip and studied it. Then studied it some more, as though trying to extract answers from a greasy slice of pressed potatoes. Because as happy as she was to see Erin—her _friend_ —happy, something about this whole “date” scenario made her feel painfully and profoundly ill. Her stomach whined, loudly. Holtzmann stuffed the chip into her mouth. It tasted vaguely of motor oil and grease.

Erin came back down the stairs in yet another business-suit type dress skirt.

"I liked the last one better," Holtzmann mumbled through a mouthful of chips. Erin frowned, smoothing out the skirt.

"The blue one?"

Holtzmann grinned, releasing a small shower of spitty chip crumbs onto the table.

"The mostly naked one."

"Holtz!"

 

It took three more outfits, six pairs of shoes, and some serious goading from Patty before Erin finally found an outfit that was not, as Abby referred to it, "stuck-up-the-ass-professor-chique."

 

It took another half hour and Patty's proclamation of “Girl, you look _hot,”_ before Abby was actually able to goad Erin out the door. And with the final, cheerful wave goodbye, the sharp clacking of heels-on-steps, the slamming of the firehouse door, Holtzmann found herself getting more and more inexplicably irritated. It draped over her like a shadow, eclipsing her mind, just slightly, and settling burr-like pricks into her heart.

So she dealt with the situation the best way she knew how—she pulled down her goggles, depressed the “Play” button on the boom box, lit up her torch, and got to work. She began to feel somewhat more calm as she worked, the methodical movements forcing her fingers into a familiar rhythm. Her hands set into muscle memories like musicians, hammering out rhythms, screwing out symphonies. This lasted for a time, but in short order, she realized her mind was wandering again, tearing holes in the calmness, opening up her mind for the irritation to leak through. And…and something more, too. Something…was it—was it _sadness_ she felt? Almost in awe, she realized it was, though she couldn’t imagine _why_. Only that it _was_. And that was not sitting well with Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, not at all.

She had, at this point, given up all pretense of getting actual work done, and had taken to burning small holes into a piece of aluminum sheeting. She stabbed the metal again and again, burning hole after smoking hole into the dented aluminum. Her mind was reeling, now, whirring in a frenzy of observations and thoughts and. And there was _something_ about this guy (whom she had never actually met, but there was _something_ , she was certain), _something_ about the date, _something_ about the situation in general, _something_ —

Her movements suddenly halted mid-stab.

Oh. _Oh._

“HOLTZMANN!”

Abby’s panicked, somewhat-resigned broke her out of her rather startling realization.

“ _HOLTZMANN,_ ” Abby said again, louder this time, rushing over. “Holtz, SMOKE!”

Holtzmann looked down, startled. The sheeting had begun to smoke profusely where the soldering iron was japed into it, creating tiny black beads that fell and skittered across the table. She yanked the soldering iron out, and dropped the aluminum onto the table with a sharp _clank._

“Holtz, what did I say? No inventing _here—_ “ Abby said, tapping the table lightly with with one hand, “—While still inventing _here._ ” Abby moved her hand over to tap Holtzmann’s forehead instead.

Abby's forehead crinkled. "You okay?"

Holtzmann grinned in what she hoped was a convincing way, and nodded. She also winked surreptitiously for good measure.

Abby seemed unconvinced. "Want me to stick around? You look kinda tired. Maybe you should consider, y'know, sleeping? Instead of inventing all night."

Holtzmann waved a hand at Abby, gesturing to her to go. “Nah, Abs, I’m good.”

Abby didn’t move at first, and show Holtzmann another slightly suspicious, slightly quizzical look.

“Alriiiiiight. Don’t burn anything down, or fall asleep in a puddle of face-melting acid or something.

Holtmann put two fingers to her forehead in a salute, and winked at Abby. “Seriously Abs. I have a ton to do.” She gestured at the piles of scrap metal and half-built machines as if to prove this fact. She grinned at Abby, expectantly. Abby shook her head, waved, and headed down the stairs.

Holtzmann turned back and stared out at the empty room, music still filtering out of the boom box, echoing and tinny in the silence, grin still stretched across her face. The grin started to falter, slowly, but the smile didn't fade. It never did. She needed it there, like she needed her goggles, needed her necklace, needed her air of flirtatious actions. Because she could not do this again. _Not again._

She put down her pliers, laid her head down on a pile of paper clips on her desk, and began to sketch the blueprints for a tooth rocket to the moon.


	6. Or, Holtzmann Learns that Kisses Make Far Better Rocket Fuel Than Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzmann falls asleep on some paperclips, Holtzmann learns to drink coffee, and Erin and Holtzmann conduct a scientific experiment.
> 
> Oh, and she realizes that she isn't alone.
> 
> FINAL CHAPTER!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo, lovelies. I am so sorry it took so long to write this. School is kicking my ass this semester. Plus, apparently, I have a far harder time writing my fav's happy?
> 
> Anyway, thank you thank you to everyone who has been reading and keeping up with this fic. I love and appreciate you all, and all of your comments, and everything.
> 
> I have a few more fics up my sleeve, so hopefully I can get those out sometime.
> 
> Please come find me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife. I would love to get to know some of you and chat about all things fandom!
> 
> Or, you know. Life. In general.

Which is just where Abby found her, exactly 8.6 hours later: head on the desk, a mop of rooty blonde hair spilling over the edge of the table, paper clips pressed into her cheeks, fingers clutching a chewed pen lid, drooling lightly onto a piece of graph paper.

Holtzmann stirred lightly, frowning to herself. She was dreaming of ghosts and rocket ships and cruel laughter and lavender shampoo and—

"HOLTZMANN!"

Holtzmann bolted upright, pen lid still clutched tightly, hair springing wildly into her eyes. Paper clips peeled off her cheeks, leaving light imprints as they hit the table with tiny _plinks._

She blinked dully, eyes unfocused. There was a figure there, and it was walking toward her.

"Abby?" She croaked out. Barely. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

Abby strode over, shaking her head slightly.

"Holtz, did you sleep in the lab again? You can't keep doing that, honestly, how many times have I told you? There have to be three different radioactive machines in this lab. Or four, depending on what that stuff on your desk is." She gestured vaguely at the paper clips.

Holtzmann frowned, cocking her head to one side, then blinked again, blearily.

"Abby?" She said again, pulling a stray paper clip off her cheek.

Abby threw up one arm in exasperation, still clutching the sloshing mug in the other hand. She shook her head. "Honestly," she muttered. Then she thrust the cup into Holtzmann's hands instead.

"Here," she said. "Take this." Then she turned and headed up the stairs to the third floor.

Holtzmann stared down at the mug in her hand. Then she sniffed it, lightly, frowning. Coffee. She swirled the milky brown liquid in circles, confusion etching its way across her forehead. She didn't take milk in her coffee. Or sugar. Or coffee.

She didn't even drink coffee. Come to think of it, she didn't use lavender shampoo, either. Her chest tightened. She brought the mug to her lips and chugged the coffee down. It burned her tongue in a way she liked, and made her stomach churn in a way she didn't.

She only knew one person who used lavender shampoo.

* * *

 

Holtzmann stood behind her work table, gathering supplies. She pressed a hand to her goggles, making sure they were still safely in place, then grabbed a pipe from the ground nearby.

She was going to make that damn proton shotgun.

And possibly hit things, too.

She pressed down the “play” button on the boom box, taking a second to run the pads of her fingertips over the well-worn rubber. Debarge began to echo around her into the large, airy chamber. The scents of oil and old metal and singed leather worked their way into her very being as she cranked and soldered and twisted and plugged. Slowly, very slowly, the heavy fog that had begun to grow in her stomach began to dissolve, replaced by a faint hum, as though a generator had started up in her mind and was pumping electricity through her veins.

It continued this way for a while—though how long Holtzmann could not say, exactly—until the sound of Patty’s resonant voice filtered in from downstairs. Holtzmann clicked the volume dial down several notches, listening.

“Heeeyyyy, girl, check _you_ out! Looks like your date went—“ there was a muffled pause, in which Holtzmann could make out a faint rustling—“very well."

Abby’s voice came next. “Hey, Ghost Girl. Good date? See? I told you there was nothing to worry about, I knew it would be just fine.”

Muffled noises from Kevin. Then silence.

And then, as Holtzmann screwed the final screw into the faraday cage on Patty's proton pack, Erin’s feet padded their way up the stairs.

Holtzmann's eyes raked up and down Erin's outfit, calculating. Categorizing. Red dress. Black heels clutched in red painted fingernails. Smudged lipstick over a thin upper lip, small smears of mascara around light blue eyes.

She peered up at Erin, still twisting the screw into place. Through the yellow lenses, the world glowed electric, casting the space surrounding her in a radioactive light. It was soothing, almost, the staticky hum of the boom box, the room cast in a faint yellow hue.

Everything except those blue eyes.

Holtzmann closed her eyes for a moment. _Radioactive_.

“So,” she heard herself saying, though she didn’t actually feel her lips move. “How was your date?”

Erin shrugged, staring down at the cement floor underneath her feet. Then she raised her head, and gave Holtzmann a faint smile.

“It was fine.”

They never heard about that guy again.

* * *

 

Over the course of the next several weeks, Holtzmann found herself dealing with her recent revelation methodically, logically, as any scientist would do: first she observed, then she analyzed, then she ignored everything.

Perhaps not any scientist, then. Perhaps just her. Because for all that Dr. Gilbert was excellent at running away--and after all of those years of listening to Abby talk about it, Holtzmann knew that she was--Holtzmann was a fucking professional at ignoring herself.

Well, without the getting paid, part, of course, because that would require her to have a job in professional ignoring, and she was fairly-sure-but-not-completely-positive that that wasn't a real thing. Anyway, feelings were stupid.

 

Abby brought up food, tried to get her to come down and eat, and sometimes even managed to get Holtzmann downstairs to grab slices of pizza herself before jumping back up with a grin, a salute, and a “Very important improvements! Science doesn’t stop, you know! Lots to do! Tick-tock!” thrown back over her shoulder as she bounded up the stairs. In these occasions, Abby would give patty a _look,_ and without fail Patty would say, “Nuh uh. I’m not touching this one with a ten foot pole.”

She stopped slipping off to the third floor much. Spent less and less time on the roof, and more and more time in her lab. Because in her lab, she felt comfortable. In her lab, nothing was calm and nothing was quiet and nothing was ordered but fuck, it was _her_ lack of order, _her_ sliver of oasis in a world where everyone else seemed to be drowning. Her lab was safe, grounding--and the air was electric.

Erin, for her part, seemed to treat life normally. Well, as normally as it ever was, when your job involved running off at all hours to go shove ghosts into radioactive boxes. She came downstairs every morning to work, attending calls when they came, going down to grab lunch and dinner and always always coffee. Always smelling of lavender.

And every morning, Holtzmann pressed her palms into the table, feeling the just-sharpened edges slice tiny pricks into her hands. Every morning she inhaled, deeply, greeting Erin with a shaky grin that almost felt numb. Because, as she always thought when Erin showed up on their shared floor these days, Erin was here. Erin was _here._ And that felt not-quite-good right now but she knew it was _right_ , technically, because Erin had a chalk board here, filled it with beautiful, dusty numbers that came together to form the equations that make up the universe.

Until today, when Erin stopped pacing, and the small scratches and clicks that filled the space between songs were no longer present. Holtzmann was attempting to screw a new trigger onto the proton shotgun--she was _almost_ there, almost had it figured, despite the occasions she took it outside to smack it against the various poles up and down the alley--when the sharp scent of melting metal was overpowered by the spicy scent of lavender. The shadow of a head fell across her work table. Holtzmann's heart rate increased, her own head becoming vaguely cloudy, as raised her eyes upward. There stood Erin, in front of her, eyes wide and worried, eyebrows furrowing to form lines-like-waves across her skin. Holtzmann's stomach solidified, ripples-like-currents playing their way across her skin. She swallowed, hard, pulling up the corners of her mouth into a grin.

"Heyyy," she drawled, surprised at how normal she sounded. Her stomach rolled.

"What's up, doc?" She asked, winking lightly at Erin.

Erin didn't move. She opened her mouth to speak, and a faint gurgling noise came out.

She shook her head and stared at the proton gun on the table, a small, soft smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Holtz..." She began, and trailed off, closing her eyes. She ducked her head the other way and sighed.

“There are…” Erin tried again, voice cracking. She was wringing her fingers together. She breathed deeply. Holtzmann watched the arc of her chest rise and fall. Then Erin tried again.

“I like the scientific process.”

Holtzmann blinked, then raised an eyebrow. She didn't know what exactly she had expected to hear, but it wasn't that. Not that the statement was exactly news. Everything from Erin’s ponytail to her tiny bowties to her perfectly organized shoes (Holtzmann had liked to change the pairs on occasion, just to mess with her) screamed scientific process. The woman was sexually attracted to the scientific process. But the silence was getting louder, despite the sound issuing from her boombox, so she simply said,

“Um. Yes?

Erin nearly smiled, then let out a very loud breath. Holtzmann bobbed up and down on the balls of her heels, that same way she had in kindergarten, the same way she always did when she simply couldn’t get herself to be still. Then Erin started to speak again.

“Okay. Okay. So did the calculations, and I, well, there are about a million compelling reasons why I shouldn’t do it. The math says so and the science says so and you can even see it see the patterns emerging and forming but I just despite the million compelling reasons that I shouldn’t there is one reason that I should and—“ Erin was speaking rapidly, now, words increasing in speed so quickly that Holtzmann could only understand half of what she was saying.

Holtzmann cocked her head to one side, blowing a stray blonde curl out from in front of her eyes. She lifted her goggles to her head, as though that would make the words Erin was saying clearer somehow. Erin stopped speaking, and Holtzmann bobbed her head up and down. She had absolutely no clue what Erin was talking about, and the only response she could think of was,

“Uh?”

Erin clenched her hands by her sides, frowning.

“Okay,” she said, quietly. “I’m going to conduct an experiment.” She walked around the edge of the table to stand in front of Holtzmann. Holtzmann was about to inform Erin that she was welcome to so long as she didn’t touch the proton gun—it was untested and highly unstable, after all—when suddenly, her mouth was otherwise occupied by Erin’s lips on hers. Holtzmann inhaled sharply at the contact. The skin was soft and warm and nothing like Holtzmann’s own slightly cracked ones. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably, but she was fairly certain that this time, it had nothing to do with not meeting her quota of salty parabolas.

Then, just as suddenly, the lips were gone, and Erin was standing in front of her again, a little pinker around the edges than before.

Holtzmann wanted to ask why, wanted to ask how long, wanted to ask who put Erin up to this and _how could she,_ but what came out instead was,

“I think that the board of ethics would take some issue with your methods.”

She wished she had said nearly anything else when she saw Erin visibly deflate at her words. Erin took a step back, tugging her arms into the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

“Oh.”

Erin’s voice was soft, with a slight tremble, and Holtzmann felt her own breath leave her lungs. She stepped forward, running a hand through the mop of hair spilling over her lab goggles.

“Look, uh, Erin—“

Erin shook her head and held her hands out, as though to stop Holtzmann from taking another step.

“No,” she said, forcing a small smile. “I, uh, I get it. I’m, um, I’m sorry. I’m just going to.” She backed up toward the second floor stairs. Holtzmann leaped forward.

" _Wait_." Holtzmann shook her head, forcing her lips to pull into a smile, despite the buzzing in her head and the tightness in her chest and--

"Ethics are for dudes."

Erin stopped backing up to peer at Holtzmann, cautiously. The ghost of a smile was playing along the corners of her lips, but she still looked ready to bolt. Holtzmann took another step toward Erin.

"Ethics," she said, more firmly now--far more firmly than she felt--"are for _dudes."_

Two more steps and she would reach Erin--

_Physics is the study of the movement of bodies in space._

Two more--

Their lips collided.

_Radioactive._

Even though they nearly knocked their foreheads together when they first touched and even though Erin's teeth had collided with Holtzmann's lip at first and even though Holtzmann's belt buckle was digging into her hip bone from being twisted around the wrong way in the moment, she could have cared less. Because Erin's lips were warm and her hands were soft and Holtzmann's own hands were weaving their way gently through Erin's hair, and Holtzmann was positive that these levels of radioactivity were lethal but god, what a way to go.

She wrapped her arms around Erin's waist, pulling her in closer, deepening the kiss for a moment before they both broke finally broke apart, panting slightly.

"Oh," said Erin, again. Holtzmann's face broke into a grin despite her lurching chestandstomachand.

"Yeah," she said, letting out a breath, reaching up to rub her necklace. "Yeah."

Erin cleared her throat.

"So that was--"

"Yeah. It was."

Holtzmann's mind flashed, and she fixed Erin with a quizzical look.

"Why now?"

Erin laughed, a little nervously, and gave Holtzmann a half-sigh.

"Abby made me."

Holtzmann felt a fissure crack open in her heart. She kept the grin up, but tensed, slightly, and Erin must have felt it because she quickly followed her statement with, "no, no, I mean. Not like that, I did want to..." She trailed off, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

"She told me this morning that she was, and had always been, perfectly happy to let me make my own stupid decisions. But that when it started interfering with her other best friend's life..." Erin shrugged. Holtzmann's eyes widened behind her goggles. The same phrase resonated over and over, clattering through her mind like a mine car. Because, though she was absolutely positive that Abby was her best friend, she had been just as certain that she was not Abby's best friend. And the knowledge that...so _casually_ out of Erin's mouth like that (the thought of Erin's mouth made her grin wider). She shook herself. Erin went on.

"She threatened to tell you herself, and I could not let that happen."

Holtzmann laughed. "Sounds like Abs. Whatta mom." Erin laughed, too.

"Yeah. It does." Then she cleared her throat.

"Um, speaking of Abby. We should, uh, go downstairs. You know. Before Abby decides it's been too long and charges up here herself."

Holtzmann straightened up, pressing two fingers to her forehead in a salute.

"Lead on, captain."

 

Holtzmann grabbed Erin’s hand as they made their way toward the stairwell. As though if she let go, Erin would float away or disappear or _maybe she would_ , and Erin didn’t protest (though halfway down the stairs, Holtz used her other hand to smack Erin’s ass, and Erin yelped, loudly. “HOLTZ!” “A ghost did it.”). Patty spotted them, letting out a whoop, as Abby yelled "you owe me $20, Patty!" while gesturing wildly, and Kevin let out a cheery wave, proclaiming, "hey, you guys are back together again!"

"What do you mean, _again?"_

"You know, like before--"

"Let it go, Erin."

Once safely at the bottom of the stairs, Holtzmann, arms wrapped around Erin's waist, inhaled deeply the scent of lavender shampoo. Because now, now the scents that made up her life were not just motor oil and electrical discharge. They were lavender shampoo and coffee and wonton soup and old books and hair gel and yes, even Kevin's terrible, terrible cologne. Cheap pizza and ionization discharge and chalk dust and the sharp, musky scent of rocket ships to the moon.


End file.
